


Freckles

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Smut, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well I wrote this for fun for whybenedict and then it just sort of spiraled out of control so here you go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freckles

            The London night was cold, a lost flame in a city covered with lights.

            Sherlock was ready to hail a cab, but John wanted to walk off the adrenaline.

            Sherlock can simultaneously feel the heated sweat from the chase, blossoming dark and rich under his arms and at the basest curve of his back, as well as the freezing air on his unprotected face, invading his eyes and nose and lips. He rubs his bare hands together and curses himself for leaving his scarf and gloves at the flat.

            “Sherlock.”

          He looks down at John. Currently, he can find no words in his mind palace to quite describe him. “Flatmate,” “colleague,” “friend,” and “best friend” dance at the corners of his eyes, but they aren’t quite adequate.

            “Sherlock, you’re shivering.”

            He shakes his head and cold locks of damp hair stick to his temples.

            John smiles. Sherlock is no longer unsettled by his physiological reaction to John’s smile. The first time, when he realized his insides ached because John was smiling, and not because he had accidentally poisoned himself, he nearly passed out. And then there he was, all concern and cornered eyebrows and murmuring questions as he helped the woozy detective onto the settee.

            “I am not shivering,” Sherlock says. John keeps smiling, and Sherlock’s abdomen hurts and his chest aches and his breathing stutters a little.

            “Are too,” John says, words muffled as he pulls off his right glove with his teeth. He gently takes Sherlock’s hand in his, and slips the glove on.

            “Well that’s a tremendous help. Thank you, John. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

            “Git,” John huffs, half-laughing at the warm sarcasm. He’s tugging on his patchwork scarf, the old one, the one his mother made for him as she slowly slipped away in the Oncology ward.

            Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but closes it as John stands on his toes and reaches behind his neck.

            Time freezes.

            Sherlock knows this is not possible.

            But no one, not even Sherlock Holmes, can tell Time that it is being impossible.

            Sherlock’s eyelids drop a millimetre.

            John’s warm fingers brush the curls and skin at the nape of his neck.

            Sherlock closes his eyes.

            The scarf, warm and soft and _John_ , is being pulled tight against the vertebrae in his neck.

            Sherlock inhales through his nose slowly.

            Strong hands, one gloved and one bare, gently pull the scarf together at his throat.

            Sherlock opens his eyes an millimetre.

            The two hands come to rest underneath the Belstaff, at the lapels of the suit jacket.

            There are no words. Just a smile. John softly pulls Sherlock closer by the lapels and his smile is warm and scared and curious.

            Sherlock allows himself to be pulled.

            John tastes like coffee. His upper lip is flavoured with salty sweat. The corners of his mouth taste like smiles and happiness. Is that a taste? If it is, this is what it tastes like. His bottom lip tastes like courage and loyalty. Sherlock tucks this information in the depths of his mind palace, in the vault of things he must never forget.

            The planes of their mouths, gently closed around Sherlock’s upper lip, pull apart as they remember to breathe.

            Sherlock looks up at the stars, peeking out from the inky blue sky.

            “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmurs.

            John chuckles softly. “I thought you didn’t care about—”

            The words fade slowly as Sherlock looks at John again, as the soft pad of a thumb is pressed against John’s lips, verifying their existence.

            Grey eyes meet blue.

            “That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.”

            They walk home, John’s bare hand glued to Sherlock’s bare hand, both tucked in a pocket of the Belstaff.

            As they walk, Sherlock knows the word that had been eluding him.

            John Watson and Sherlock Holmes:

            Soul mates.

            The London night is crisp, a starry galaxy in a city of wonder.

 

            Sherlock’s head is buzzing, a black mood towering over his mind palace.

            It had started out with kisses and little touches. The nights, on the street (kisses stolen secretly). The mornings, over breakfast (giggles kisses of tea and toast and morning breath). Over late night telly (cuddling and hair stroking and sleepy kissing).

            And then _it_ happened.

            It was a Bond movie. For this, Sherlock _hated_ Sean Connery.

            Sherlock was repositioning the cuddle, trying to get closer to John, to crawl up under his skin and never let John, _his John_ , out of his sight.

            John shifted too, and Sherlock froze. And then there were lips. These lips tasted different. Popcorn and red liquorice and something intense, something powerful. The cuddle turned into grabbing, hands and arms and heat.

            John’s hands trailed down Sherlock, down the tattered grey pyjama shirt, down to the waistband. His thumbs slipped underneath the elastic and graced the soft tuft of hair.

            Sherlock froze. John removed his hands and looks carefully up.

            “Something wrong?”

            “I...I…” Sherlock looked down at the tangle of their legs, trying to find the source of the raw heat pooling in his body.  John followed his gaze. Sherlock is shocked out of his logic. “I think I have an erection.”

            John chuckled softly and kissed Sherlock’s temple lightly. “I think so, too.”

            “I can’t remember the last time I had an erection.”

            “I’m flattered,” John said innocently, and Sherlock glowered for a moment. “Oh, don’t be like that, love,” John cooed, pecking the tip of the detective’s nose. “It’s natural.”

            “Not for me.”

            John took Sherlock’s hand and pressed their palms lightly against the zipper of his jeans. “See? I’ve got one.”

            Sherlock could already feel his heart breaking, hear the sound of a door slamming, hear the sound of a silent 221B.

            But he had to say it.

            “John, I don’t think I’m…”

            “Ready?”

            Their eyes met. Sherlock felt more heat, in his cheeks and ears and neck, and John smiled softly.

            “That’s okay.” He pecked Sherlock’s cheekbone. “No rush. Whenever you’re ready.”

            The movie kept playing on the forgotten television. Sherlock hates Sean Connery.

 

            He has just woken up from a nap. The sun is shining on his bed, and there is a sheen of sweat covering his entire body.

            It has happened again.

            Sherlock glares at his trousers, trying to will away the fourth erection that week.

            His dream suddenly reappears in his head, demanding to be remembered.

            John. John in his uniform, undressing slowly. John, cock hard and strong as it pounded into Sherlock’s body.

            Sherlock’s cock throbs powerfully.

            He groans and begins palming himself. He doesn’t feel like a wank, even though he’s discovered how satisfying they are. He feels like _John_ , he always feels like John, but John’s at the surgery for another hour.

            Nervousness floods his brain like wildfire.

            But he's ready. He wants to be ready. He tries to be ready. He can’t control his emotions when it comes to John.

 

            “Sherlock! I’m home!”

            He fidgets on his bed. “Room!” he shouts back.

            There’s a little knock before the door creaks open.

            “H-hi,” he stammers. John furrows his brow.

            “Something wrong?” he approaches Sherlock, but freezes when he sees what the detective is holding.

            Sherlock lets out a large breath. “JohnIthinkI’mreadytohavesex.”

            John is still staring at the lube and condoms.

            Sherlock can’t breathe.

            John looks up, with that adorable look on his face that Sherlock hates and loves with intense passion. “Are you sure?”

            Sherlock nods, and John doesn’t hesitate to clamp Sherlock’s trembling lips between his own.

            He awkwardly scoots backward, giving John room to climb onto the bed after him. John’s lips taste like coffee, his teeth taste like the plastic pen cap he’ll sometimes chew absently when he’s really concentrating.

            And then John breaks away. Sherlock makes an embarrassing whine before he can stop himself, until he realizes John is stripping off his jumper.

            “You,” John pants into Sherlock’s mouth, “gorgeous… _bastard_.”

            Sherlock whines again as John clamps his teeth onto Sherlock’s bottom lip and pulls. Sherlock, still holding the little boxes in his hand, realizes how stupid he’s being and hastily sets them aside, chiding himself internally. He knocks John’s careful hands out of the way and simply rips off John’s shirt, breaking a few buttons loose.

            “God, you taste like sex already,” John moans, “Oh, darling, I’m going to _ruin_ you.” Sherlock shivers and John smiles against his jaw.

            He runs his hands along John’s smooth chest, down his strong body and back up to his shoulders. Both men freeze as he brushes a mass of tissue.

            John leans back a little, smiling sadly. “You’d forgotten, hadn’t you?”

            Sherlock stares at the scar, a thick pile of discoloration. “Never,” he breathes. He gingerly touches the edge of the scar. This is an exit wound. “You were…shot from behind…”

            John nods.

            Sherlock runs his hands over the tissue, over the top of John’s shoulder and around to feel the entry wound. _Wounds_. “Two bullets?” John nods, not moving as Sherlock returns to the biggest scar. “One managed to go cleanly through, but…the other one got lodged. You took it out by yourself. It got infected. You were all alone, weren’t you?”

            John nods again. Sherlock looks back up at his face. “I try to keep my shirt on…it’s…very ugly, isn’t it?”

            Sherlock kisses the scar, each and every pointed edge, working his way to the middle, where he holds his lips and whispers against the skin, the perfect skin, the skin that brought them together. “It’s beautiful." Sherlock whispers into the flesh, too quietly for John to hear, "You'll never be alone again, love. I've got you."

            John grabs his face and fiercely kisses Sherlock again, sucking and nipping at his lips and whispering into Sherlock’s mouth.

            He works open each button of Sherlock’s shirt with phrases like, “Oh, I bet you’re a screamer,” “You are mine, mine, mine,” “God, you moan like a slut.”

            Sherlock feels gooseflesh rise all over his body as John slides his shirt off his shoulders and slides his hands down his bare chest, pausing to twist peaking nipples.

            “Joh-HON!” Sherlock shouts unexpectedly. John pulls them back to the edge of the bed, where he stands and removes his trousers. Sherlock does the same, and quickly sits back down.

           “Shy?” John asks, and Sherlock feels his face and ears and neck redden. John kisses his temple, murmuring, “We’ll go slow. If you change your mind, tell me, yeah?”

            Sherlock nods, and John kneels in front of him, hands slipping cautiously to the silky purple pants. He begins sliding them off, holding eye contact with Sherlock. Sherlock blushes even more and looks at his hands, twisted in the bedcovers.

            “Darling, you’re going to have to uncross your legs.”

            “OhgodI’msorry!” Sherlock slaps his bare feet to the floor, resisting the urge to cross his knees again.

            “Don’t be sorry, love.” John kisses his kneecap.

            The pants keep moving downward, slowly revealing more and more hair, more and more of Sherlock’s virginity.

            “Beautiful,” John whispers, and Sherlock looks at him again. John isn’t looking at his nakedness; he’s staring into Sherlock’s eyes. He cups a high cheekbone in a strong hand and gently smoothing the dark circles under the grey eyes. “God, you are so beautiful. How did a guy like me get someone as special as you?”

            “I’m not a _good_ kind of special.” John kisses Sherlock’s eyebrow, easing them back onto the bed, somehow losing his own pants in the process.

            “Liar.”

            “I might above-average looks, but—”

            “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I knew the moment I saw you.”

            Sherlock tries to speak, but John is _kissing_ kissing him again, and the logic of his brain is short-circuiting.

            “Not only that, but you are so fucking _smart_. God, I love that.”

            “I th-think the term is ‘genius.’”

            “I’m going to fuck the genius out of you, smartarse,” John murmurs, hooking his teeth onto the shell of an ear.

            And then John takes both their cocks in one hand and Sherlock shouts “FUCK!” He blushes and John chuckles at the detective’s sudden lack of verbal filter.

            “Oh, we will,” John says, sucking a hickey on Sherlock’s neck. He keeps pumping their cocks together.

            “FUCKJohnohGODjust _FUCKMEalready_.”

            John pulls back a little. “You’re sure?”

            Sherlock whines, bucking his hips, trying to regain friction. “FuckmepleasepleaseJohn.”

            There’s a crinkle of a wrapper. Sherlock takes up their cocks, admiring John’s strong body before the man pulls back and puts the condom on.

            “L-lube.”

            “I know, sweetheart.” He slicks himself up and pours extra on his fingers, watching Sherlock vigorously touch himself without result. John lifts Sherlock’s legs onto his shoulders, “This is going to feel a bit uncomfortable, but it’ll get better, okay?” Sherlock nods, and John gently begins fingering Sherlock.

            “FUCK!” Sherlock shouts as the doctor strokes his prostate. He twists his hands into the sheets, trying to hold back. And soon he’s ready for two fingers. Three. And then John bunkers down.

            “You ready?”

            Sherlock whines and nods and pulls John closer with his legs.

            And then there’s heat and sweat and swearing and Sherlock is shouting, screaming perhaps.

            He doesn’t last long. After John pounds into his prostate the tenth time, Sherlock howls and John holds him and guides him through the orgasm with kisses and murmurs.

            He’s dazed, confused. John must’ve pulled out, because he’s fucking his own fist and then he’s swearing and shuddering.

 

            Sherlock is absolutely limp. John cleans them up before guiding Sherlock underneath the covers.

            “Thsorry,” Sherlock tries to say sleepily.

            John is shaking a little, trying not to laugh at the exhausted lisp, kissing Sherlock again as the lanky limbs claim the doctor and scoot their bodies against each other. “What for, love?”

            “I thhould’ve lathsted longer.”

            “Oh, darling, don’t worry about that.”

            Sherlock tries to nod, sleep dragging his messy hair awkwardly against the pillow.

            A peck on the nose. “Sleep, Sherlock.”

            “Butwe’ll have thsecths again, right?”

            John’s chuckling, stroking the hair out of Sherlock’s eyes. “Oh, we are _definitely_ going to have sex again.”

 

            “Are you awake? No?…good. Because it’s definitely way too early in our…relationship…thing to tell you this, but…”

            Breath. Sigh.

            “I love you, Sherlock. God, I love you so much. I don't know what would've happened to me if I hadn't met you."

           A sigh. A kiss.

 

            He wakes up feeling…euphoric. He’s beaming. He touches his face to make sure that’s what’s happening to him.

            He’s on his stomach, arms spread-eagled. Something is tickling his back.

            “John?”

            “Good morning, lithspy,” John coos, leaning over to kiss Sherlock. Morning breath and happiness.

            Sherlock presses his palms against his eyes. “Oh, god.”

            John kisses his temple and returns to his sitting position behind Sherlock. “Oh don’t worry. I’ll only use that information when you’re being recalcitrant and maybe on my birthday.” Sherlock fakes a groan and looks over his shoulder at John.

            “What on _earth_ are you doing?”

            John continues tapping his back with light fingers, smiling. “You’ve got freckles.”

            He groans again, and John laughs, leaning across the bed and grabbing a permanent marker off the bedside table.

            “Hold still.”

            “Even my _toes_ are sore.”

            “That’s because you curled them up in the sheets when I fucked you raw, love.”

            Sherlock blushes at the odd mix of endearment and obscenity.

            John hums softly, something familiar yet foreign, drawing on Sherlock’s skin.

            “What’s that?”

            “One of yours. You play it when your mind is too full. Don’t you recognize it?”

            “No, I hardly know what I’m playing when I think.”

            “Mm. Well, it’s beautiful. I usually sneak into the room when you’re playing it, but you don’t notice me.”

            “I don’t believe that, I could _never_ not notice you.”

            John kisses the points of his shoulders down to the wings of each scapula, before he sighs and holds his head against Sherlock’s skin. “God, I don’t want to go to work today.”

            Sherlock rolls over, pulling John around him and trying to kiss his attention back. “So don’t.”

            “I can’t. Mrs Hannaway is coming in, I need to biopsy her mole for cancer, and Mr Jenkins is—”

            “Mm. You should spend _less_ time thinking about work,” Sherlock murmurs, remembering how John sucked a hickey into his neck and returning the favour with vigour, “and _more_ time thinking about me.” John moans a little as Sherlock bites on to his neck and pulls.

          “Not possible. I’m always thinking about you. Do you know how many times I’ve gotten hard at work, thinking about you and your gorgeous arse?”

            “Seven.”

            “Lucky guess.”

            “I never guess.”

 

            John, even after vigorous morning sex and Sherlock’s best attempts at persuasion, ends up showering and going to work.

            Sherlock gets up some time later, pausing to touch John’s still-damp towel, before he catches sight of something in the mirror.

            John used the marker to dot Morse code, in reverse, onto his back, using the freckles as guides for the dots and dashes. They read:

GORGEOUS

GENIUS

MINE

PAIN IN THE ASS

CARING

KIND

BEST FRIEND

SOUL MATE

            Sherlock’s heart physically _hurts_ for John, aching for his presence and his love. Because he loves John, with every fibre of his being, if that is possible. And he thinks, he _hopes_ John loves him back.

            “God, I’ve gone all sappy.”

 

            And maybe,

            _Just maybe,_

            Sean Connery and James Bond weren’t _so_ bad after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in my spare time (which is almost nonexistent) and mostly late at night, so if you see any mistakes or anything, PLEASE point them out. I also LOVE concrit, so feel free to share your thoughts!


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